


Five schemes that didn't get Bobinet out of marrying his cousin : A comedy in six acts

by drcalvin



Category: La vie parisienne - Meilhac/Halévy/Offenbach, Párizsi élet (Színház)
Genre: 19th Century, 5+1 Things, Arranged Marriage, Comedy, Dandies and demimondes, Deedly deedly operetta whee, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied orgy, M/M, Multi, OT3, Ocean liner, Open Relationships, Paris - Freeform, Threesome, Travel, m/f/m, operetta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metélla has won her Gardefeu's hand in marriage; Gardefeu is learning to cope with his instinctual panic at the mere thought of matrimony. </p><p>The only cloud on the sky is that Bobinet, their dear friend and Metélla's occasional lover, remains stuck in an unwanted engagement to his cousin. Luckily, Gardefeu has the perfect plan of how to get him un-engaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prélude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> A Yuletide treat for Carmarthen, with the best wishes of the season! 
> 
> Thanks to A.E. and C. for beta help!
> 
>  **Setting:** This takes place in the world of dandies and courtesans as imagined in the Budapesti Operettszínház staging of _Párizsi élet_. Because there are two common versions of this operetta, and the production ends differently from both, a quick recap of the canon plot:
>
>>   
>  The dandies Gardefeu and Bobinet get into an argument at the train station, their friendship divided by a romantic rivalry for the demimonde Métella, Gardafeu's (and sometimes Bobinet's) lover. When she arrives with a third man, they overcome their differences and decide to romance women from higher society instead. To seduce a visiting baroness, Gardefeu pretends his home is an annex to the Grand Hotel, playing host to the baroness and her husband. Assisting him, Bobinet impersonates a rich Brazilian and hosts a wild party at his aunt's house, inviting the Baron alone.
>> 
>> Métella discovers the plot and tips off the baroness. Before the baroness can take action, Bobinet's aunt and cousin return from their vacation, having called the police on the party-goers. Now they too wish to take rooms at the Grand Hotel annex. While Gardefeu tries to find them accommodation elsewhere, the three women plot revenge: the baroness and the aunt are to switch places in the dark of the bedroom. 
>> 
>> Gardefeu returns and happily throws himself at – he thinks – his seductive baroness. Meanwhile Bobinet's cousin encounters Gardefeu's shoemaker, disguised as a major lodging at the hotel, and they spend the night together.
>> 
>> When all is revealed, Bobinet's aunt is upset that her niece's honor has been compromised. She insists that Bobinet marries the girl, much to his despair. Métella returns as well, announcing that she will take Gardefeu as her husband.
>> 
>> This summary leaves out the mutual physical affection between Gardafeu, Bobinet and Métella, the _many_ sex-jokey shenigans, the Paris-satire and a cute subplot with the glovemaker and shoemaker but hopefully clarifies the events in this fic.

Métella was gloriously… glorious, Bobinet decided with the verbosity of a man five glasses deep into his absinthe bottle. Her hair shone like gold. Her dancing was nymph-like and vivid. Her voice – oh, that voice! It had been the second thing Bobinet noticed about her. She seduced at him from the stage now, her song like a hundred starlings greeting the rising sun – such a voice, such a dance, such a glorious bosom!

But what a short time he had left to appreciate Métella as was her due... Marriage. Responsibility. Maybe even _employment_ , horror beyond horrors! 

Urged on by the green fairy in his glass, Bobinet decided that his dismay at this lurking future was not properly expressed by sitting upright in his chair. To better indulge his despair, he should collapse despondently on the tabletop. 

Absinthe, unfortunately, is not the most reliable of advisors. Without a clear understanding of how it happened, Bobinet instead found himself in a huddle on the floor.

The surface beneath his table was sticky, the rough boards mottled with wine-stains and worse. He turned over, discovering that the underside of the table offered no view more pleasant. Throwing his gaze around, he wondered for a moment whether the club hosted a species of rat of absolutely gargantuan size or whether there were a pair of forgotten dentures grinning at him from beneath the next table. Either way, the blindly mocking grin seemed to perfectly match Bobinet's recent fate. 

"Hey, Bob? Bob!" A pointed boot poked him in the side. Bobinet smacked it away, vexed to have his sulk interrupted. "Bob, you'll miss the end of Métella's set if you stay there."

"Go away, Gardefeu. I am suffering all the agonies of the world."

Bobinet would be the second in line to admit that Gardefeu wasn't an entirely hideous man, or perhaps the third, considering the proof that Métella, too, appreciated his dubious good looks. Either way, Gardefeu had clear eyes that only rarely revealed his nocturnal habits, a well-proportioned body still resisting ruin despite the vices he indulged in, and a remarkably smooth, unmarked skin for a man his age, in particular given his appreciation of champagne, absinthe, cognac, eau-de-vie, etcetera. Further, Gardefeu possessed an insidious charm which drove Bobinet to distraction in all manner of ways, which to his lingering regret also worked a spell on the glorious Métella. 

Nevertheless, for all that he could be surprisingly pleasant a view, Gardefeu's face hanging upside down in the dimness of the club was not a sight to be endured on an empty stomach. Nor on one filled with the amount of distillates of considerable percentage that currently bubbled inside Bobinet.

"I'm going to be sick," he announced.

"Not on my Portuguese boots, you aren't!" 

"Then leave me to my suffering. I am dying of this sickness, of misery and a crushed heart."

With a deep groan, Gardefeu pushed his chair back. Relinquishing neither his glass of champagne nor the tails of his coat, he hunkered down beneath the table.

"Gracious, this place looks absolutely vile from beneath. Is that your hair sticking to the floor? Never mind, I have no wish to find out." Gardefeu heaved a sigh – at the state of the floor, Bobinet presumed. His friend had never been afflicted by an over-abundance of empathy, the selfish lout. "No, this is simply too much. Here, Bob, hang on to this a moment." 

Ignoring his protests, Gardefeu put the glass on Bobinet's chest and climbed up above the table-edge. When he returned, he had swapped the coat for a second glass and a half-full bottle of absinthe

Bobinet flailed for the green comfort, scowling at Gardefeu when he insisted on pouring him only a small measure.

"So tell me then, young Bob. What's the matter?" Gardefeu said, sipping his champagne as fussily as if he was sitting on a street-side café. "I can't see a reason anyone would prefer to hide down here instead of admiring our dear Métella. Excluding my own sacrifice, done purely out of friendship."

"Your dear Métella." Bobinet's voice grew thicker, his previous misery returning to him, and he emptied his absinthe in the general direction of his mouth. "Yours, not ours."

"I'm sorry? I thought you were still pleased with our little arrangement." Gardefeu trailed off. Heaving another sigh, he patted Bobinet's liquor-soaked face with his handkerchief. "I have heard no complaints from the lady about the matter either. Or – don't tell me you have upset her somehow, Bob?"

"I? I have done nothing!" Managing to raise himself up on his elbows, Bobinet gave his friend a cross-eyed look of despair. "But my aunt has set a _date_ , Gardefeu! A date, do you understand what that means? I have less than four months of freedom left!"

Gardefeu tried to hush him, knowing that the sound of Bobinet in full hysterics could easily cut through a full orchestra, complete with brass section, and might greatly upset Métella. 

"Ah. Your aunt." Gardefeu patted Bobinet's hand to little effect. Daring to raise his own voice for a moment, he continued: "And cousin Juliette hasn't grown more appealing since your engagement?"

"Cousin Juliette, hah! I sometimes feel less like I'm marrying cousin Juliette and more my aunt."

"Oh, come on now. She's a feisty old bit, I give you that, but she's your aunt. Surely she wouldn't… Not with you?" Gardefeu looked queasy, presumably at the memories of the evening he had spent with Madame de Quimper-Karadec in the belief she was his baroness.

"Not like that, you idiot." Bobinet rolled over onto his stomach, discovering that his hair had indeed stuck to the floor. He decided he was too upset to give a damn at the ruin of his haircut. "My aunt has decided when we're to wed, in which church, what Juliette is wearing, what I am wearing, who I am allowed to invite – not you, by the way – and oh, of course, refuses to budge on the fact _that_ I am to marry at all!"

"What! You're not allowed to invite me, your oldest friend?"

Bobinet shook his head. "Not you. Nor Métella, light of my life and soother of my soul. In fact," he swallowed, lower lip wobbling dangerously, "aunty dear has decided we're to live with her until further notice. In her mansion. House arrest, Gardefeu, for life! And I'm not even thirty yet!"

Applying the old shoulder-patting and 'there, there' method of comfort, Gardefeu frowned in concentration in while Bobinet dissolved into pitiful sobs.

Life without young Bob would have considerably less flair. As spiritually uplifting and physically invigorating as Gardefeu found his engagement to Métella – especially now that his instinctual panic had passed – he would gladly admit that having Bob around came with many perks. Bobinet was a friendly ear when Gardefeu found yet another pair of hundred-franc pearl earrings on the night table, paid for with the same hundred francs he had planned to bet on horses. He was also excellent at soothing their lady-love if she misunderstood Gardefeu about petty issues like finding a trio of ballet-dancers in their bed… In fact, without Bobinet's influence, and graceful way of whisking away Métella for a night of dinner and dancing when tempers flared, several of the petty issues might have grown into disasters. 

His mind made up, Gardefeu filled Bobinet's glass again. "I suppose I shall have to assist you then, my friend. Four months, you said? Have no worries. Ah, here..." With his help, only about half of Bobinet's drink ended up on his cravat. "We will have you un-engaged and permanently unmarriable in less than four weeks!"


	2. Prélude

"There is nothing as succulently tasteless as a good orgy," Gardefeu declared later that morning, when Bobinet had been carted off homewards and the club emptied of patrons. 

He and Métella were squeezed into her dressing room. Gardefeu had laid the matter before her, while she changed out of her dancing clothes. She had been wearing a delicious new piece, in three hues of bronze with a line of black pearls sewn along the lines of the bodice and Gardefeu had enthusiastically volunteered to help her get out of the fragile piece. Doubting his motivations or not, Métella had nevertheless permitted him the liberty.

Now she frowned at her mirror. "Exactly how is an orgy 'succulent', dear?"

Gardefeu ignored her, continuing his proclamation as if he was standing on the Moulin Rouge stage himself, addressing the entire house. "We need to present our dear Bob as completely unmarriable. Oh, allow me." He helped pull her chemise off, careful of the many decorative combs in her hair.

Humming the tune of her latest number, Métella dried herself off while Gardefeu admired the view, hastening to give her the necessary perfumes and soft cloths. 

"You have a point," she agreed after a while. "I hoped the girl would change her mind without our intervention, but we simply can't allow poor Bobinet to be shackled to such a small-minded mademoiselle." Métella tapped her fan against her cheek, pondering the issue further. "They already know the state of his finances, and of course are aware of any family scandals. Not much to do about his manners or looks either."

"Exactly." Gardefeu dared press a kiss to her shoulder, despite knowing that a romp in the dressing room was not encouraged. There had, apparently, been _Words_ from the management after last time. "In lieu of a handsome American millionaire to come whisk the girl off, I feel the best method is to present Bob as a master of debauching; a certain social disaster!"

"Hmm… And you're sure the girl will be scared away by that?"

"The girl? Pfah." Gardefeu slowly let his hand creep towards Métella's tempting decolletage. Careful, careful… "It's the aunt that is the problem. An old lady can probably accept a man who is boorish and unattractive, but one that would lead her nièce to moral ruin? Never!"

"Perhaps, but she had no issues whatsoever with taking advantage of you and your virtueless ways," Métella reminded him, giving Gardefeu a teasing wink.

"Mercy, my dear!" He shuddered intensely. "You had agreed never to mention that night again. However, to address your objection, consider this: Madame de Quimper-Karadec is an old widow, having lived her life in full. She has no prospects of future marriage and needs none either. She is free to do what she feels, especially as she knows I have no interest in spreading gossip about the matter. But young Juliette? A life before her, a future full of possibilities – unless she is tainted by scandal! I'm certain she'll guard the virtue of her darling nièce, like any old dragon on its hoard. After all…" Delicately, Gardefeu slipped his hand downwards, cupping the mounds of Métella's still uncovered breasts. "There are scoundrels luring in every corner!"

Quick as lightning, Métella's fan whipped around and smacked him, the ivory edge sharpened to sting. 

"Please focus, Raoul my darling," Métella said while Gardefeu whimpered and blew on his reddened knuckles. "It was Bob's reputation we needed to blacken in public. You can just wait until we're home in bed."

* * *

A bag of ice on his forehead and a drink mixed with a generous helping of genièvre in hand, Raoul de Gardefeu tried to forget that the day behind him had ever existed.

They had arranged the orgy. Bob, bless his heart, fussed about being unfaithful to Métella, but agreed quickly enough once she promised not hold it against him in the future. A sacrifice for a good cause, he had finally admitted, was worth a few exceptions to the rules. 

Gardefeu was almost – almost, because he was a good friend – jealous about how easy it was to find volunteers for Bobinet's orgy. He'd never have waitresses and cancan-dancers turn up unannounced because they'd heard he was in desperate need of erotic saving. Or any saving at all, but especially not the sort which demanded mutual nudity, strategically placed tassels and a pot of honey. At least the courtesans demanded that Bob present them with a valid cheque before the event in question. Otherwise, Gardefeu would have been truly insulted.

So. The orgy part was a wild success. For all that Bobinet was usually tenser than a freshly tuned piano string, he had seemed… remarkably relaxed during the part Gardefeu observed, before he sneaked out to help Métella shepherd the aunt closer. 

Two pretty serving girls from Bobinet's favorite restaurant up in Montmartre had been rubbing themselves all over him. The sweet curves of their flesh, hips and busts – never tamed by the confinding garments that preserved a lady's modesty – made a study in contrasts to Bobinet's sparseness. There had been something almost hypnotic about his long wiry limbs moving around and between their soft roundness… 

Gardefeu took another swallow of his drink. He was aware that Métella and Bobinet used his bed from time to time. That was only fair; he had enjoyed himself on Bob's generously sized couch more than once. But they had their arrangement, and it worked well, partly because Gardefeu was good at ignoring what his dear ones did in their own time. 

Which would be a lot harder now that he had a headful of memories not clogged by the soothing veils of alcohol. Bobinet's face when a woman's lips closed around him, his delighted giggle when one of the cancan girls demonstrated her agility and the way he had been so… mellow when they returned, every limb lax with pleasure. A smile had graced his features even in sleep, his breaths stirring the dark curls of the courtesan resting on his chest. Another detail which stuck in Gardefeu's mind like a fishhook, dragging and worrying his thoughts, was the way Bobinet's long fingers had wrapped around the girl's waist, his thumb drawing a fond circle on her skin. Because he knew that gesture, had seen Bobinet hold Métella similarly, stroking her above layers of dress and corset. Now, the images blended together, haunting him, until he saw Métella and Bobinet lying nude and relaxed together – golden curls next to Bobinet's black mop, his hands worshipping every inch of her bare skin... 

Gardefeu took another deep swig of his genièvre, waiting for the burn of alcohol to cleanse his mind and let him focus on anything but the disaster of his plan.

The girls had done a splendid job – hardly a thread left on any of them, and Bob's bite-bruised body and sweat-soaked hair left no doubts as to what they'd been up to – but the old bat had _entirely_ failed her part.

Rathern than shriek, faint, awake and flee to break the engagement, madame de Quimper-Karadec had taken a long, hard look at the scene, her eye as gimlet as a that of a seasoned bookmaker at the race track. Then she had turned to Gardefeu, who recoiled from the ancient, cunning evil seen in her. With her cane, she had lifted a dainty piece of undergarment and pushed the slip of lace beneath his nose. 

"I suppose it is a weight off my mind to know the boy isn't a weakling," she sneered.

"Madame!" Gardefeu had tried, valiantly tried, to turn the situation back on track. "I'm terribly sorry that you had to come in at this moment. Why, I told Bob only last week that he needed to cut back on the girls a little. Alas, he remains insatiable!"

"Is that so?" The aunt harrumphed. "We shall have to make his priorities clear, then: first breeding, then pleasure. I will have a long talk with him later and explain things. Do send the blight over to my town apartment once he awakes, would you, Monsieur Grand Hotel-employee?"

And then she sailed out through the door, cool as an ice-block.

On the ground, Bobinet had rolled over with a groan, proving he wasn't quite as asleep as he seemed. While Gardefeu made a half-hearted apology to his backside, Bob hid his face in a welcoming bosom, moaning about eternal damnation and being the most unhappy man in the world.

Considering his position, not to mention what the ungrateful pest had been doing while Gardefeu and Métella herded an old woman already negatively disposed to their persons to his apartment, Gardefeu had felt entirely justified to empty the remains of the ice bucket over his head. With a rising chorus of chilled shrieks and curses in his ears, he had then gone to drown his sorrows.


	3. Second scheme - La Mort

If the draconic aunt was not to be scared away by a pile of living, heaving, sticky flesh – perhaps the opposite would terrify her all the more?

"Gardefeu, I hope this new brilliant plan of yours works… What the blazes is _that_?"

"This, my friend, is the solution to all your troubles. Let me introduce Monsieur Bontemps, one-time resident of Rue Vaugirard, lately of the anatomy department at the Sorbonne."

"He is, that – You madman! You can't – Augh!"

"Bobinet, stop sputtering. It's quite unattractive. And Raoul… Dear, I hate to point it out to you, but I think the good monsieur is dead. And has been for some amount of time."

"Exactly! Trust me, when your aunt sees this, she'll – Bob? Bob! Come back here, you ungrateful little prick!"

"There, there. I'm sure you meant well, darling. However, there is indecency and scandal, and then there is stealing corpses. The two are not equivalent. Now, please return the good Monsieur to where he belongs before anyone misses him."

"Métella, you wound me! I never stole him. The students were quite happy to lend me the old fellow for a rental fee."

"I'm sure they were. However, my point still stands: Monsieur Bouffant –"

"Bontemps!"

"Pardon. Monsieur Bontemps is going back to the anatomy department. _Now_. Oh, and Raoul? If this smell gets into my dresses, you're paying for my new wardrobe. Ta-ta for now, dear."

"But… what about our opera visit?" 

"You can find me at Bobinet's until you have evicted your new lodger. Good-bye, Raoul."


	4. Third scheme - La Maladie

Métella admired her handiwork, a pleased smile playing on her lips. If you wanted something done… 

The way to do it was clearly with makeup and an ingenious recipe for fake blood she had from a former gentleman friend, who had invented it to escape duels unharmed. Add some belladonna for the eyes and a spoonful of laudanum to give a credible slur to his voice, et voilà! With her treatment, Bobinet, always spare of frame and prone to an unhealthy pallor, looked halfway through death's door. A thick bandage to cover half his head, and a large compress on his cheek, with dabs of fake blood and drops of wax to create pus finished off the masterpiece. 

"Do I look miserable enough?" Bobinet asked her, catching himself at the last minute before he scratched off any makeup. "I certainly feel horrible." He swallowed deeply, and reached for his water. "All queasy… What's in this paint?"

"Oh, pish, don't complain now. You look absolutely pitiful, darling, perfectly pitiful." Métella fluffed his pillow. "Now, it shouldn't be an issue, but you remember the story, yes? You and Gardefeu were planning to go to London –"

"To buy something for Juliette's birthday, yes, but we ended up in the train accident all the papers are reporting about today," Bobinet parroted. Then he winced, clutching his stomach. "Métella, I think I'm getting ill for real."

"It's probably just nerves." She patted his hand, then leaned over to give him a kiss; carefully, so as not to smear the makeup. "Better?"

"Not really," he admitted, although he managed a smile for her. "But you reminded me why I'm going through all this." He clasped her hand and squeezed it firmly, then winced again. "I hope they come over soon, though."

"Well, if you get sick, it will only look more convincing," Métella tried to reassure him. "But don't you worry, I sent Alphonse with a coach, they will arrive any minute. Perhaps you should have another sip of this?" She took out a small bottle of laudanum. "It is medicine, after all."

Bobinet didn't seem entirely convinced, but opened his mouth obediently when she poured him a spoon. Métella had just finished giving him a drink of water to get rid of the bitter aftertaste when they heard the door.

"See? Now you just lie here and look confused, and all will be well. Oh, your notes, do you have your notes ready?"

"Mhm, here." Bobinet swallowed deeply again, looking more stricken by the minute, but showed her the cards concealed in the sleeve of his nightshirt. They had copied down a letter from the Baroness Gondremark to a Swedish opera singer she had befriended during her stay, Bobinet swearing high and low that neither his aunt nor cousin spoke one word of of the northern tongue.

"Bobinet! Dearest boy, what has happened to you?" The door flew open and his relatives entered. 

While Métella tearfully recounted the events, holding up the morning paper with its lurid photo of the accident that had come so timely for their little scheme, Bobinet lay in bed, moaning and shivering in a very convincing way.

"Oh, Bob, this is so typical of you! Always getting into the stupidest scrapes, you silly." Juliette fluttered around him, picking at the bedding in a singularly useless way. "What if you still look hideous when it's time for the wedding? I wanted to have a really fancy photograph made!"

Bobinet only groaned in reply – a convincing groan, admittedly, and he was excellent at playing a man in pain, but there was only so much fussing over one of her men Métella could take. When the cousin began re-tucking his covers for the third time, Métella gave him a pinch in the leg to remind him of their plan. 

Bobinet whimpered again, but angled his hand to see the card, and began at last to speak. " _Kära Gustava jag hoppas att detta brev finner dig i högsta välbefinnande och hälsa…_ "

Juliette frowned. "What in the world is he saying?"

"I'm afraid," Métella leaned forwards, whispering as loudly as she could, "that Bobinet has utterly lost his wits. He was unable to recall anything in the hospital – not his name, not my face, not even the French language!"

" _...jag har glädjen att meddela att jag om allt... går väl snart kommer få åtnjuta moderskapets alla fröjder. Tiden i Paris…_ "

"There!" The aunt pushed Métella and Juliette away, grabbed Bobinet by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake. "I heard him say Paris. Bobinet? Bobinet, look at me when I'm talking to you!"

He really was looking quite ill; Métella was impressed by her own makeup skills. 

"You remember your own family, don't you, my boy?"

Trembling and sweating, Bobinet nevertheless continued according to plan, and continued to speak in Swedish. " _Lärde mig och min kära make vikten... av kroppens ömhet som inte överskuggar men ej heller kan lämnas... åsidan för själens kontakt_ – Oh, Christ!" 

Doubling over, Bobinet clutched his stomach, clenching his eyes shut as if in true agony. "I'm dying! Métella, for real, I think I'm dying," he groaned. Unfortunately, he groaned it in flawless French. "Fuck, but it hurts! Métella, I need a –" He retched loudly, making it abundantly clear what he needed. 

Proving that she wasn't entirely scatterbrained, Juliette hurried to grab the washbasin from the toilette table and hold it in front of Bobinet as he noisily lost control of his stomach.

"One moment, young… lady." Before Métella had a chance to reach her stricken lover, the aunt took hold of her arm and, with a surprisingly steely grip for a woman her age, dragged her outside. 

"Can I assume that this was your plot?" she asked once they were in the hallway. "Poisoning our Bobinet?"

Métella huffed, taking a moment to smooth out her sleeve before replying; she had heard Bobinet complain about his terribly stubborn old aunt plenty of times, but never before had she gone up against the woman herself. It appeared her opponent was more formidable than she had previously judged.

"I haven't poisoned anyone. He had an accident, and left the hospital with amnesia. But it seems the… shock of this sudden ill-feeling has at least shaken up his head enough that his memory came back." 

The old woman rolled her eyes. "This is growing ridiculous. How long have you and that good-for-nothing fake vicomte been trying to get your claws in my nephew?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, you, you jezebel! You try to drag my poor nephew down to your own level, you and that Raoul de Gardefeu – if that is even his real name – by involving him in the scheme against the poor Gondremarcks. Then you attempt to blacken his name and now you've, what, tortured the poor soul to make him cooperate with you? I am growing tired of your interference, and I wish to know your purpose. What is it you want – his money? The properties he stands to inherit? Lord knows neither the boy nor the family name is worth all this hassle."

"How dare you! I have not poisoned Bobinet, and I'll hear no insinuations otherwise." Métella fought to keep her composure. Breaking the nose of old women was not a constructive solution to any problems. "Further, I'll have to remind you that I am engaged to marry Gardefeu, who has no financial troubles whatsoever, I'll have madame know. And he is absolutely a vicomte! My future husband has no need to, to cosy up to anyone for the sake of an inheritance, be it land or titles or any amount of money!"

"Hmpf, of course not." The old woman shook her head, skepticism written all over her. "What other reason could anyone have to try to lure my idiot nephew into all manner or sodomy and sin? In fact, that insane hotel scheme – was that all a ploy, to get Bobinet engaged to a hussy like yourself, while that Gardefeu seduced the baroness?"

Breaking the nose of interfering, overbearing old women wasn't at all constructive… but it was _immensely_ satisfying.


	5. Fourth scheme - Le Voyage

After Gardefeu had settled things with the police – which gave Bob's family time to whisk him off somewhere, madame Quimper-Karadec's new servants refusing to tell even after being offered outrageous bribes – he spent the weekend soothing Métella's wounded pride.

On Sunday, when Gardefeu had admired her battle-wounds and kissed every insult away, they both knew it was time to turn their minds to the matter of saving Bobinet from a marriage which promised to go far beyond a minor annoyance. 

"We need to get him away from that old witch," Métella said, her pretty mouth growing stern, vengeance flashing in her eyes. "And from cousin Juliette as well, that two-faced little creature."

Gardefeu wouldn't dream of disagreeing. Hearing her aunt shriek loud enough to raise the entire household, the nièce had apparently sprung to the old lady's rescue and landed a hit on Métella that left her with a shiner that wouldn't look out of place in a ring of fistcuffs. Gardefeu's assurances that the powder would hide it had not been enough, and Métella had felt forced to cancel her Friday performance, which angered her a great deal. 

"I thought about marrying him off to someone else, someone a bit more manageable," Gardefeu admitted, "but, I don't know…"

Métella hissed like an angry cat. "Don't even think in that direction! Not the cousin, and nobody else either!"

"As you say, darling, as you say." Even without Métella's warning, the voice of Gardefeu's good sense, always a soft-spoken creature, had reminded him that Bobinet married to another woman – no matter how meek or weak-willed she was – would be a Bobinet not entirely his and Métella's.

After the Swedes returned to the north, the three of them had enjoyed the rest of the season together. Dancing with Métella, then handing her to Bob with a quip, enjoying a smoke while watching them together… Strolling through Paris arm in arm during warm nights, Bob singing drunkenly to Métella while Gardefeu basked in the simple pleasure of leading them all homewards... 

Gardefeu had never considered himself a possessive man. Love, let go, and take up the chase anew had been his philosophy for life. 

Certainly, he'd argued with Métella regarding her other patrons, only recently having accepted them as a sacrifice they must make for the sake of her career. And while he still indulged in some small amusements in the dance halls, the prospect of stability and even the occasional indulgence in fidelity no longer terrified him as before. Perhaps, Gardefeu admitted, he had grown old. The attachment he felt for his friends was becoming greater than the thrill of the hunt. As illogical as the prospect seemed, he found immense satisfaction in knowing that they all spent most nights beneath his own roof, as if it had proved they belonged to none but each other. 

Now, with Bobinet's marriage looming over every moment, it was an unpleasant reminder of how fragile their balance had always been. 

"Now, Raoul, don't grow angry – but I thought of marrying him myself," Métella confessed softly. 

He nodded to encourage her; he had in fact considered the idea himself, but laid it aside for Métella to decide on her own – some measure of good sense warning him that any scheme in that direction spelled nothing but disaster. "I trust you," he said, only a little surprised to find it the complete truth.

"It's in part the aunt, you see. Dreadful old woman is certain to attempt to have it annulled. But even beyond that…" Métella shook her head. "To be perfectly frank, dear, I'd rather be Madame de Gardefeu than Chicard. It scans much better, and such things are important to consider in my business!"

"Your taste is, as always, impeccable my dear. And imagine the holiday visits at aunty's!"

Métella shuddered. "I'd rather not. However, I was inspired by my mark of battle." She gestured to the fading mark over her eye, and Gardefeu hurried to press a gentle kiss to it. "How about the army? He looked quite dashing in his ambassador's uniform."

"I'm afraid they allow officers to marry, provided any army in the world would be stupid enough to take Bob." Gardefeu took a sip of his wine and continued. "Not to mention the guns. I'm not certain his nerves could handle that."

"Dear me, I didn't mean one of the officers who use guns, or fight or – march and things like that. How barbarian! No, no, I was thinking of the charming sort, that wear fine uniforms and tip well." 

"Hard to pick which sort you end up, I think," Gardefeu said vaguely, his own experience to armed forces only reaching so far as being chased by a gang of soldiers down the Champs-Elysee while they called him a fraud and card shark. "I think, unless you buy a commission for a frightful amount of money, there are tests? Maybe? And training and whatnot; running, carrying backpacks… Most armies also look down on excessive drinking, gambling and dancing." He considered for a moment. "Same with monasteries and churches, or so I have been led to believe."

"Oh, that doesn't stop any clerics I've ever met! Why, I had these two friars once, delightful boys with such pretty voices. What an evening we had together. We even… Ah, but never you mind that, dear." Métella trailed off, the quirk of her lips worryingly naughty. 

No, Gardefeu decided, he should probably just pretend never having heard that. Besides, it was all in the past. "I'm still not seeing Bobinet as a man of the cloth," he said, not even having to fake a laugh – the mental picture alone was enough to bring merriment from anyone. 

Métella agreed with him, and they abandoned any idea of having Bobinet introduced to the priesthood. They had gone as far as discussing the prospects of having him arrested when Alphonse entered, announcing a guest.

"Bobinet!" Métella flew up from the chaise and threw herself around his neck, pressing kisses to his face. 

Gardefeu choose a more restrained greeting, telling Alphonse to bring more champagne and a light spread to celebrate, before he sauntered up to Bob and Métella. He offered a firm clasp of a shoulder and appropriate congratulations to the escape.

Wholly ignoring Gardefeu's try at propriety, Bobinet enveloped him in a tense hug, wiry arms pressed tightly around his midsection. It lasted only for a moment. Then his friend withdrew, fussing with a stain of soot left on Gardefeu's cream-colored waistcoat.

"Pardon. I had no wish to –" His hands fluttered over the fabric until Gardefeu caught him, laughing it off. 

"Oh, Bob! A stain more or less, who cares? Let me instead tell you how glad I am that you have come back to us." 

"Well said!" Métella rewarded them both with a kiss and guided them back towards the couch. "Now sit down, my dear, and tell us how you escaped." 

"Coal cellar," Bobinet indicated his black-stained clothing. "I used to sneak out that way as a boy, and I still fit, although it was a tight squeeze. Got out of the house, went over the garden wall. I think I've twisted my ankle – it's terrible how much harder cobblestones have become since I was twelve." He ducked his head awkwardly when Métella exclaimed over his ingenuity. "Oh, it's nothing really. I simply laid low a few days and then flew the scorpion's nest when the coast was clear."

"How exciting!"

"How terrifying, more like it." Slumping down against the backrest, Bobinet closed his eyes and looked pained. "My aunt is talking about moving the wedding closer."

Gardefeu squeezed his leg in silent support. "We'll come up with something, I promise."

"I suspect I should consider myself lucky that cousin Juliette is set on having an extravagant reception." Bobinet gave a broken chuckle. "It was during their fourth argument about the date that I made my escape; they've only grown louder and louder each round." Then he sighed deeply, clutching Métella closer until they were both partially lying against Gardefeu. 

It seemed only natural to put his arm around them both, the fine silk of Métella's dress cool beneath his fingers, while Bobinet's shoulder was a comfortably warm (if bony) pressure against his chest.

"I didn't come straight here," Bobinet admitted. 

"We will forgive you, darling." Métella kissed him again, blowing a second kiss at Gardefeu. 

"I certainly hope so." Bobinet licked his lips and graced them both with one of his nervous grins. "Because I went to a travel agent's and bought some tickets. Or, well, reserved some tickets. In your name, Gardefeu. Juliette took my pocketbook when we were at the doctors –" 

"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry about that mess!"

Bobinet cut off her apologies with a kiss. "How could you know I'd have a bad reaction to the laudanum? _I_ didn't know I'd have a bad reaction to laudanum. And our family doctor saw no need to inform me that mother used to get the most awful cramps from morphine, until we learned I'd inherited the weakness in full." His voice deepened and took on a nasal quality as he pushed up a pair of imaginary spectacles. "Such private matters, monsieur, are between a physician and a lady. It is a matter of propriety, which one ought never to sacrifice merely to avoid discomfort. Discomfort, he calls it! I thought my innards would climb up my throat!"

Gardefeu laughed at his impression, while Métella cooed about the terrible pain he must have been in, the matter of the encroaching wedding for a moment forgotten in favour of mutual assurances and merry jokes. 

Then Alphonse returned with the snacks and Bobinet threw himself at the caviar and cheese as only a man who had just been through three days of a doctor-approved light diet could. The reverent way he stroked the champagne bottle before filling his glass to the brim was practically obscene, yet still nothing compared to the noises that escaped him as he took his first bite of roquefort and figs. 

"So, what was this about a travel agency?" Gardefeu asked when they were refreshed and relaxed, glasses freshly topped with champagne.

"I want to run away," Bobinet declared, still licking crumbs off his fingers. "If I just keep out of France for the next two years, until I can claim my inheritance, and then run off again – well, she can't marry me if she can't find me, right?"

"Leave Paris?" Métella looked shocked at the suggestion of such a drastic measure. "Permanently?"

Bobinet pouted. "I hope Juliette will give up and find someone else for her big wedding party, before it comes to that. But if nobody turns up, then yes. I choose exile over imprisonment any day!"

Gardefeu and Métella exchanged a silent look over his head. "That could prove to be a bit complicated," Gardefeu began. "I have business in town, after all… and Métella's career as a singer, well, you can't expect anything to happen out in the provinces."

"Will you abandon me to my fate then?" Bobinet wailed, the half bottle of champagne he had hastily imbibed having a destabilizing effect on his mood. "I tell you, my aunt wants us to marry next month! And live at her place for the foreseeable future. You might as well bury me alive at once. Hell, a shot to the head is more merciful."

"You're going into hysterics, Bob." Gardefeu rolled a grape between his fingers. "You've reserved three tickets, you say…"

"Yes, for next Tuesday." Bobinet's head sank until he rested against Gardefeu, occasionally looking up through dark lashes as if he was pleading in truth for his life. "To Brazil. The very first luxury liner leaving from La Rochelle."

Humming thoughtfully, Gardefeu pushed the grape into Bobinet's mouth, quelling any further complaints for the moment. "I think," he began, "that I have an idea. Cousin Juliette is set on a fancy wedding, you say?"

Bobinet nodded, adding a sheen of tears over his eyes to the assault. With a sigh, Gardefeu clasped him around the neck; he'd always been terribly weak to Bob looking pitiful. 

Petting them both, Métella spoke next, her voice deeply worried. "It is hard to deter a girl once she's set her sights on the right wedding dress. Too many of my gentlemen friends have fallen before that terrible desire."

"Now, now, my dears!" Gardefeu refused to let any worries enter his voice. "Eat, drink, and be merry – for I have finally come up with a plan. I recall, Bob, that you once mentioned your cousin had a fondness for maritime men?" 

While Bobinet confirmed that, yes, cousin Juliette had always had a good eye for charming sailors and handsome shippers, Gardefeu plucked another few grapes from the stems. He fed one to Métella, letting his thumb linger on her lower lip for a moment, gathering himself. 

"I have a suggestion, then. You give those tickets to your aunt and your cousin – shh, wait a little and let me explain. Make something up, you want to get away from the stress of the big city or blather like that. You can apologize, if you absolutely must. Then…" He held up another grape, staring at the dark blue skin and tried to ignore the dryness in his mouth. All or nothing; Gardefeu grasped his courage and fed the grape to Bobinet. Slowly, this time, his fingers lingering as gently as on any number of courtesans', wiping away a drip of grape juice from where it gathered at the edge of his mouth. 

"Gardefeu?"

"I suggest," he began in a soft voice, "that Métella and I also take a cabin. A suite, in fact, with plenty of room for… everyone. Due to a clerical error, which I'll have Alphonse arrange, you will end up without a proper cabin. Nowhere to sleep but down in third class. Of course you can't expect cousin Juliette to visit you there." He fiddled with the grapes, not daring to to look Bobinet in the face as he continued. "And then nobody will notice that you'll be sleeping with us." 

They were both silent, too silent for Gardefeu's tastes. He found himself crushing a grape in frustration, sticky juice spilling over his fingers.

"I think that sounds like an absolutely delightful idea," Métella said. Her voice was soothing and as she handed him a napkin, he was encouraged to feel the encouraging squeeze of her hand. "It will give us plenty of time to get to know each other better. Bobinet dear, don't you agree?"

Gardefeu turned his head slowly, his neck as stiff as if someone had filled him with needles. Bobinet didn't look much better, the whites of his eyes ringing his pupils like on a spooked horse, and the champagne glass in his hand was visibly trembling. But he nodded, at long last, and even drew the corners of his mouth up into what was probably intended as a smile.

"Sure," he managed, in a voice like a dying crow. "We'll run off to sea. Set up my cousin. Good plan." Then, drawing a trembling breath, he turned around, spilling champagne on Gardefeu's trousers. Before he managed to protest, Bobinet's thin lips were crushed against his face, as if Bob was trying to take a bite out of his nose.

Gardefeu twisted his head, not certain if he was trying to move away or closer. Métella's lips were softer and much fuller. He couldn't recall ever kissing a dancer with such clearly defined stubble before, and the champagne staining his thigh was a growing spot of cold. But then Bobinet sank against him, and they seemed to fall into the proper angle, and Gardefeu found himself kissing his old friend deeply.

When Bob withdrew, a silly smile playing on his lips, he looked lighter than he had since the before the unfortunate engagement to Juliette. And Gardefeu, to his great surprise, realized that he wouldn't mind seeing how Bob's face looked after another dozen kisses.

"So…" Bobinet rasped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Off to sea?"

"I think the technical term," Métella said, snuggling up behind him, "is _weigh anchor_!"


	6. Fifth scheme - La Foi

Cousin Juliette did appreciate life on board. Unfortunately, she most appreciated it plastered to Bobinet's arm, or showing him off to the other young ladies, or comparing him – more or less favorably – to the strapping species of the crew. None of which appeared to be strapping enough to entirely pulled her away, no matter many lines they hauled or decks they swabbed in hip-hugging white trousers. It was all a great disappointment. 

At least their nightly arrangement had worked out. Bobinet showed his aunt 'his' cabin below decks the first day, with a suitable amount of complaining. She now believed that he passed out in the cramped cabin above the engine room once he staggered away from the card table.

Considering some of the places Gardefeu had found Bob passed out drunk during their acquaintance, he had to admit it wasn't an entirely unlikely prospect. Of course, unbeknownst to the aunt, Bobinet joined them in the suite every night – not that much more than drunken fumbles had occurred yet. Nor seemed likely to occur, not at the pace Bobinet imbibed when haunted by the thoughts of the impending wedding. 

And getting rid of a limpet-like fiancee was proving even harder than working out their nightly logistics.

"Have you seen any hint of interest from the girl in any useful direction?" 

Gardefeu addressed his question to Métella, who was currently spying on the unhappy couple on the deck below, her theater eyeglass following their path for the last hour. His lady love was today dressed in a garnet dress. Her hair had been artfully arranged in a complex knot, with a few tight corkscrews dangling beneath a small hat decorated with dark pearls. While Métella usually favoured greens and lighter colors, her mood had been such when they left that she filled her coffers with the most dramatic and imposing dresses in her wardrobe. They definitely had an effect on Gardefeu, making her usual fairy-like being appear as a goddess of rightful vengeance. He only wished she could unleash her fury freely at the deserving without servants or policemen around to interfere; and Gardefeu would be delighted to offer himself up for some celebratory ravishing afterwards.

Métella removed her eyeglass, rubbed away the crease that marred her forehead and leaned back in her seat. "A drink, darling? This spy business is exhausting work." 

Once she had received a glass of needful, and thanked him with a sweet caress, she reported: "None of the crew or other male passengers seem to interest her much, not enough for us to work with. I fear the plan is a dud – little cousin Juliette knows the value of Bobinet's money far too well to let him go."

"Do you really think that's all there is between them?" Gardefeu gestured to the open space and fresh sea air around them. "In this environment, young hearts should spring, and light-footed girls throw themselves at a handsomely uniformed seaman with abandon. I'm starting to fear there is genuine interest."

Métella rolled her eyes. "Then you are blinded by all those flowers and pink ruffles she tries to hide her selfishness in. Bobinet's chequebook is thin now, I admit, but he will end up with a respectable sum in a few years and that's what matters to most women. Don't forget, she was prepared to married your idiot cobbler for the title she thought he had!"

"True. Anyone who picks Frick on the basis of his status isn't too choosy."

"However, I did discover something interesting. The aunt made certain to lead them a good way around one particular group, and appeared to scold Bobinet for even looking in that direction."

"The dancing girls from America?" Gardefeu guessed.

"No!" Métella grinned triumphantly. "The old Portuguese lady with the shawl and the affected accent. The _seeress_."

"Really?" Gardefeu leaned forward to better see over the railing. "And here I thought old biddies were supposed to enjoy hypnotism and all that claptrap."

"It seems not. She does not seem devout, but everyone has their own ways with the Lord, I suppose?" Métella lifted the eyeglass again, nodding in satisfaction at what she saw. "Yes, I believe that is the best angle to investigate further. We have to tell Bobinet to pay attention to what his relatives are saying about these matters… but I think a sudden conversion to the powers of animal magnetism might have the desired effect on this engagement."

"Perfect!" Gardefeu exclaimed, raising his glass high. "A toast to animal magnetism, then!" 

Their glasses clinked merrily against each other and they sat together in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

At last, Métella cleared her throat. "Raoul, darling, I wonder if you would do me a favour?"

"Anything for you, my dear."

"Well, now… I wonder if you can draw Bobinet away from the card table before he passes out tonight? I would _adore_ to have a private moment with my darlings both conscious for a change."

Gardefeu winced at the bite in Métella's tone. He couldn't blame Bob for feeling upset, and was the last to decry a bit of feasting as immoral, but the nightly excesses were growing a bit, well… excessive. Not to mention the snoring.

"I will do my best, my darling," he promised Métella and sealed it with a kiss. 

"That is good. Tell him I shall be wearing my emerald collier," Métella said, then lowered her voice to a whisper as another couple passed close by them. "And not much else at all."

"Ah." Gardefeu swallowed, feeling uncommonly warm despite the breeze. "I will make sure to inform him of this fact as well."

* * *

The dark of the ocean was a gentle curtain around them when Gardefeu dragged Bobinet back to the cabin, the ship's lights turning the night into a ballroom merely awaiting the right tune to be struck. 

"You were right, my friend," Bobinet giggled, hanging off his arm, "a spot of cigar-free air was just the thing I needed. But how far do you wish to walk? All the way around the deck?"

"Actually, I'm on a mission from a higher authority," Gardefeu admitted. "Métella demands our presence tonight. And," he hurried before Bobinet could protest, "in a sober state."

"Sober?"

"Moderately, moderately! Nobody can count the wine to dinner." One of Métella's enduring charms was that she also did not count the champagne before, and after, dinner. Nor a cognac or two.

"Yes, well… I'd actually promised the boys another round." Bobinet fiddled with his collar while Gardefeu gave him a withering look. 

"Have you completely forgotten what we decided back in Paris?" More or less, not in so many words, but still; Métella considered the matter decided, and that was enough for him. When Bobinet only boggled at him, he gave his friend a jab of reminder to his upper arm.

"Ow, hey!"

"You know perfectly well what I mean and the lady has given us marching orders, so hup, hup – time to stand to attention, Bob. Unless you consider me that reprehensible in comparison to all these sailors?" 

Bobinet pursed his lips. "It's not that I am… the idea in itself isn't repugnant, I merely…"

"Oh, spit it out, Bob, before our darling fiancée runs off with a lawyer from Marseilles in sheer boredom." 

"I'm worried, all right?" True to form, Bobinet spoke as much with his arms as his words, waving animatedly at Gardefeu, while making his worries clear in a none-too-discreet voice; a good thing neither of them were too prone to public embarrassment. 

"What about?" Gardefeu honestly couldn't fathom the problem. "That Métella will suddenly have tired of your performance?"

"No. That I, in comparison to Métella's previous male acquaintances – specifically, the ones she has known two at a time – I will make an entire hash of the, the…" Bobinet turned towards the dark sea, tapping his foot nervously. "Oh, you know! The bits including you. And me. And our… bits." He crossed his arms defensively. "If you absolutely must know, my first time with a girl wasn't exactly an unmitigated success, and at that time, I didn't even have an audience to impress!" 

"Oh." Gardefeu pondered the issue. "But surely you're older and wiser now. Besides, it's not that different with a man. Although I suppose neither of us will tape our privates away."

"What!"

"Come on now, Bob." He gave an apologetic shrug. "You meet this pretty young thing of an impressive height, take her to a private area and remove her garters... It would be awfully rude to disengage at that point, merely because you find a bit of a surprise, wouldn't it?"

"You," Bobinet said, full of hurt dignity and tension, "could have told me about your little mistaken identities before. I had no idea you took the matter so lightly." When Gardefeu only stared at him in bemusement, he gave him a withering glare before turning back to the sea. "You have always been clear-spoken about your preferences. In colorful detail, one might say. Preferences which have clearly involved no tape and more genuine bosom than a man can be expected to provide!"

"Oh. Oh! I'm sorry, Bob. I honestly didn't think it might ever matter to you." Gardefeu caught him as he tried to push past, drawing his finger's through the soft hairs along Bobinet's neck. It had the pleasant effect of causing his friend to freeze in place, apart from a soft swaying brought on by drink and waves. "Do forgive me," Gardefeu mumbled, insinuating himself as close to Bobinet as he possibly could. "I cannot say that I have ever set out to find such companionship in particular. Your friendship was more than enough for me, and it had not occurred to me that it could ever be expanded in this direction."

"It would just –" Bobinet began, then swallowed heavily. "Never mind, and forgive me for ignoring you. It was never my intention." He flexed his hands once, then quickly wrapped an arm around Gardefeu, as cuddly as a wooden mannequin. "Sometimes I think it was easier when this was all just an idle daydream," he whispered against Gardefeu's shoulder.

"We'll just learn as we go along," Gardefeu reassured him, slipping his own arm around Bobinet to steer them towards Métella. "Besides, she promised to show us her new emeralds."

"We've seen the emeralds. In fact, I'm positive I paid half the sum for them." Bobinet nodded to himself. "That is not a sum I would forget even half of, trust me."

"Dear Bob, you sweet innocent youth. We shall admire the emeralds and Métella as God intended them – together, their perfection unmarred by anything as earthly as clothing."

"Oh." Bobinet tensed up even further, but he matched Gardefeu's stride and soon they were half-running, half-stumbling towards their shared suite.

* * *

Métella lay atop Gardefeu, languidly kissing her way down his body. The emeralds that enveloped her slender neck were cool against his chest, and he groaned in frustration as she raised her hips, avoiding contact with the most sensitive part of him.

"Not yet, Raoul," she said, giving him a sweetly stinging bite above his heart. "All I ask is a little patience."

"I don't need patience," Gardefeu protested. "I only need – oh, please, yes!" He felt Bobinet's hand work itself up the inside of his leg, happily spreading them to give his friend further access. 

Métella moved above him, every touch of her skin electrifying against him. He bit his lip when she brushed against the tip of him for one agonizingly short movement. "Getting impatient, dear?" she asked, twisting her head to look back at Bobinet. 

"You look very nice," he whispered, his voice husky. "I wanted to feel if you felt as nice."

"Feel as much as you want, dear." Métella bent backwards to kiss Bobinet, revealing the full perfection of her milky skin to Gardefeu, who raised his hips again, the silk scarves shackling his arms to the headboard and stopping any further movement. "Just not here, hmm?"

Bobinet shook his head, beautifully flushed and completely enthralled by the fairy-like mistress of their hearts. 

"Traitor," Gardefeu whispered, then shivered, too overcome to form words when Métella's fingers found his nipples and slowly twisted them. 

They continued to torment him, Métella's lips branding his skin while her hands twisted and teased, never giving more relief to his striving sex than an accidental brush of her breasts, or the sweet torment of her nail following the path of a vein up his thigh and leaving a burning line along the length of him.

Bobinet was participating in his own way. Though he had abandoned his exploration of Gardefeu when Métella moved further down, he appeared occupied with a similar worship of her body. The sounds they made were exquisite, in particular when Bobinet shuffled over and did something to draw a sharp gasp of pleasure from Métella.

"Ohh, darling," she gasped, moving in an unmistakable way against Bobinet, who wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and shot Gardefeu a smile of wicked delight before he turned his focus back to Métella. 

It was impossible from his position to see the details, but beneath the ministrations of Bob's hidden hand and whatever words he was whispering in her ear, she seemed to come to pieces as quickly as Gardefeu had ever seen. Overcome by the vision of them together, the very last of his pride evaporated, and he begged like never before.

Bobinet's face was flushed, the glitter of his eyes narrowly missing teasing; but he smiled too beatifically at Métella for any lower emotion to be present in him. When he turned that smile at Gardefeu, the delight not faltering for a moment, it was a stab of pleasure overwhelming enough that he had to clench his eyes shut.

"I think he's been patient enough," Bobinet said, doing something that drew a wail of pleasure from Métella before she could reply. "Should we reward him?"

"Please!" He was so hard that he hurt.

"Should we? Oh! Darling, sweetest darling, you are _too_ kind," she moaned. The way she arched her back, eyes half-closed and the emeralds gleaming above her naked breasts, turned her words perfectly filthy. She rose to her knees, fully revealing the mound of her sex and the dark golden hair that hid her womanly parts.

He saw, just barely, Bobinet's hand moving between her legs, forcing himself further up despite the tension in his shoulders. The long, slender fingers gleamed wetly when he withdrew to tease the little nub at the top, causing another of the sweet wails from her. 

"You're killing me," Gardefeu tried to say, his heaving breath turning the words to a half-intelligible moan. 

"Poor dear." Métella purred like a cat, drawing her hands up her body until she was cupping her own breasts. "Oh, I believe you are right, Raoul seems to be in rather a bother by now." She scooted forward, delightful little gasps accompanying her journey as Bobinet followed, his hand remaining buried inside her. "Would you be a dear?" she asked when she was positioned above Gardefeu, so close that he could feel the warmth of her body, promising delights, 

"What can I do for you?" Bobinet nipped the shell of her ear, then leaned forward and let his tongue trace the edge of the collier. 

"The lotion in the lilac crystal bottle," Métella asked, "on my toilette table, please."

Her words caused Bobinet to freeze up for a moment, while Gardefeu whimpered as encouragingly as he could.

Bending in even closer to Métella, Bobinet's whispers and her replies were impossible to hear for Gardefeu, and he wriggled with impatience. Once the discussion was resolved, to Métella's visible satisfaction, Bobinet climbed over the bed, the happily dazed grin on his face promising. He paused by Gardefeu, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then instead caressed his lips once; leaving behind the tantalizing scent of Métella, before he hurried onwards.

"If you promise to behave," Métella purred, "I think it's time we remove these." She indicated the silk scarves wrapped around his wrists, a notion that Gardefeu voiced his full approval of. 

The knots were tight; Métella asked Bob to bring her scissors too, quickly snipping away the fabric. Gardefeu managed – just – to hold himself in control until the sharp point of the little blades weren't pressed against his skin. He reached up, grabbing her around that perfectly delicate little waist and thrusting himself into her welcoming warmth.

Nails scoring burning lines down his chest, Métella gave full voice to her pleasure. She clamped her legs around him, the slick heat of her amazing after the air of the cabin. Gardefeu lifted her only far enough that he thought she'd be able to feel his thrust properly, before he pushed inside again.

"Wait," she gasped after a too short while, when his movements had grown a little less frantic. "Bo – Bobinet."

It was hard to think; harder even to stop moving. But he grit his teeth, burying himself to the hilt in Métella, nothing between them besides their sweat and her spilled juices. Managed, barely, to hold himself still.

"How?" That one word was an effort, and he cast his eyes about. Bobinet had stopped at the edge of the bed, frozen – mesmerized, hah! – one hand wrapped loosely around his own cock, as though he intended to please himself but been too distracted by the sight. 

"Come here," Métella crooned, reaching for the purple bottle that lay forgotten on the covers. 

Gardefeu trembled with the effort of stillness; her movements caused his overwrought body to yearn even harder, but he preserved. He didn't know what she planned, but he was at this point ready for anything.

"Yes, like that," Métella said, a breathless giggle escaping her. "Oh, darling, I know you will do well; you have such clever fingers after all." Then she turned to Gardefeu, pale and golden, a thousand times more beautiful than the jewels that adorned her. 

He couldn't resist thrusting into her with small needful motions, and though she voiced a short protest, she made no move to stop him. He grinned when he noticed Bobinet's eyes, wide and hungry, follow the movement of her firm breasts.

"Go on, Bob." He drew a deep breath, clutching at Métella's hips as if he was drowning, and managed to hold still again. "Whatever she wants you to do."

He mumbled an affirmative. The next moment Gardefeu felt his fingers, slick with something more than Métella's natural juices brush against his thighs, his balls – they moved up, and his eyes widened as he began to understand. Soon, Métella's breath hitched, and Gardefeu closed his eyes, any number of delightful images marching through his mind. He tilted her forward, carefully, and spread his own legs, feeling Bobinet supporting himself against his knee for a moment.

"No complaints?" Métella whispered, using her inner muscles to give him an encouraging squeeze.

Possibly Gardefeu burbled something pleased at her; most definitely, he shook his head. No complaints whatsoever, not from him – and not from Bobinet either, who let loose an extraordinary filthy string of profanities as he slowly began to enter Métella.

She was so light on Gardefeu, her small hands more felt through their warmth against his chest, than through their trifling weight. But around his sex, Métella was an overwhelming presence, and as she moaned at him to move, Gardefeu found himself obeying without thought, completely enthralled by her.

They moved together, the rhythm at first hesitant, but soon growing more desperate. When he forced open his eyes, he saw Bobinet was clutching at her breasts, taller frame clearly visible above Métella's shoulders. They were contrasts in light and dark, the emeralds moving with them, reflecting the candlelight until it seemed as if stars were dancing around them both. Beautiful in their pleasure, with Métella's golden coloring flushed to a warmer shade, sounds of pleasure rolling continuously from her red lips. More silent, but no less arousing, Bobinet was utterly lost in the moment, his mouth open and the dark lashes of his eyes closed, completely lost in the sensations of his body.

Gardefeu could feel him, he realized, the familiar tightness of Métella slightly different around his sex, just as their mutual balance was shifted. God, he wanted to rediscover everything this way, and learn a thousand new pleasures he couldn't yet imagine. The possibilities near overwhelmed him and before he knew it, he had entirely lost control of himself. 

Throwing his head back, Gardefeu gave voice to the pleasure singing through him, riding out the moment while Métella's sweet warmth bore down on him and took everything he had to offer.

He allowed himself to sink back in post-climactic bliss. Métella's movements had him slipping out before he got too sensitive, and he pulled another pillow beneath his head to watch them in comfort. Bobinet was moving more freely now, the sound of him hitting her buttocks so delightfully filthy that Gardefeu found himself grinning, helpless to stop it. Though tired out, he put a helpful hand above the mound of Métella's pelvis when he recognized the pitch of her voice; she enjoyed a bit of pressure in the general area, though he wasn't sure he would be able to find the right spot from this position. 

Bobinet's face had grown strained, though only a few sharp hisses escaped him through clenched teeth, and his thrusts had grown shorter, though powerful enough to shake Métella's lighter frame. She made a demanding whimper, and he eased his grip on her breasts, slipping his left hand down to fumble between her legs. When he encountered Gardefeu's, he opened one eye, and jerked his head at him. Obediently, and curious to see what would come, Gardefeu removed his hand. 

Then Bobinet clenched his eyes shut again; his middle finger disappeared among Métella's folds, slowly feeling his way around. Gardefeu thought he saw the twitch of a smile on his face, just before Métella buckled above him and let out a quivering noise that climbed steadily in volume. A flash of inspiration had Gardefeu's hastily reach out, two of his fingers sliding into her slippery opening. Then she was wailing, throwing her head from side to side, while they both worked her sex. She was winding down when, with no warning, Bobinet scrunched up his face and plastered himself against her body. Métella's hand fluttered against his side and he grit his teeth, before hiding his face against the side of her neck, holding on in grim silence until the tension left him and he slid against her as if someone had cut the strings holding him upright.

"Mind if we…" Métella gestured towards Gardefeu, who opened his arms wide and welcoming. 

Then they tumbled on top of him, Métella's soft curves squashed pleasantly against him as Bobinet's weight came down on her back. When Métella grumbled at him, he rolled off, still huffing like a steam train. Gardefeu threw out his arm, catching Bob's wiry arm, a sizzle of warmth moving through his tired body when he felt the long fingers, still sticky, wrap around his own arm in response. Métella's settled herself on him, and Gardefeu was on the edge of slipping into sleep, worn out and messy in the best way.

Contrary to his plans, though, Bobinet disengaged before Gardefeu's pulse had returned to normal. He was up and mumbling about washcloths like the most finicky of ballet girls, the type who flitted about preparing for their next scene when a man had just got his trousers off.

Well, Bobinet was both finicky and wound tight enough to fit right in with the most nervous members of the ballet corps. If it made him happy, why not?

Gardefeu dozed off, only to wake from the sensation of a cool cloth against his stomach. "Stop that," he said without opening his eyes, trying to batten away the hands fussing with him. "Bob, maybe you get restless when you've gotten off, but some of us want to bask. With our eyes closed and – Hey!" The fabric, which had been fairly pleasant on the rest of him, was decidedly too cold to come into close contact with his privates. Glaring at Bobinet, and Métella too, the sniggering traitor, he half sat up and held out a shielding hand.

So outraged was he, that it took him a moment to notice where Métella's hands were, that they held no washcloth, and just how Bobinet was reacting. Gardefeu blinked, shook his head and, just to be certain, rubbed his eyes. 

"Did I fall asleep longer than I thought?" he finally asked.

Bobinet, busy making sure that Métella's bosom was spotlessly clean, didn't answer but their lady positively twinkled at him. "Not at all, darling. Why, you didn't think all those sweet girls who turned up to help Bobinet with his little wedding problem came only because of his hands?"

"I was under the impression half of them came because we promised decent pay for fun work," Gardefeu said, his heart not really in the argument. "But surely, it hasn't been more than ten minutes."

"I get interested again quickly," Bobinet said with a shrug. "Want the washcloth?"

"When we were introduced to each other, my friend Suzanne – Hmm, weren't you together back then?" Métella asked, all fake innocence.

Bobinet cleared his throat. "We had a bit of a misunderstanding regarding the status of our relationship. Unfortunately."

"For her, very unfortunately. Anyway, she was bragging terribly about how you could keep going up to three times with only a sip of water between rounds. Naturally, I had to find out if she was exaggerating." Métella smiled the smile of a cat who has eaten the canary and found a key to the birdhouse among the remains. "Turns out the only thing dear Suzanne was exaggerating was Bob's intentions to marry her. Also, we managed four times."

"Monster," Gardefeu moaned and fell back on the bed. "Enemy of all men."

"Now, now." Métella shushed him. "That depends entirely on how you look at it, Raoul dear. And as soon as we are rid of this annoying little engagement, we'll both have plenty of time to enjoy Bobinet’s natural talents."

"Don't…" Bobinet pushed her away, turning his back on them both. "She'll never give up, never release me." 

"Oh, ye of little faith faith!" Gardefeu didn't quite dare pull Bobinet into his embrace, not while they were both so… Well, Bob was skittish; he might run away. Instead he gave him a friendly smack on the buttock, which caused an outraged squeak. "Listen. While you have been drinking the nights away, your loyal friends have come up with a brilliant plan."

Climbing over Bobinet, Métella whispered in his ear. "Tell me, darling, are you at all familiar with the teachings of old Abbé Faria?"


	7. Finale - La Vérité

Bobinet's layers of thin shawls and garish scarves were salt-stained; the long chains of glass beads and fairy stones he'd been wearing day and night for the last week had all torn when their life-boat capsized, yet he still heard the tinkling sound of a bead falling off him now and then. 

His friends looked even more bedraggled. Métella's voluminous skirts had almost pulled her under, and she now sat shivering in her underthings and Gardefeu's soaked jacket, occasionally coughing in a worryingly deep way. But they were alive.

They were found a few hours later by the Brazilian Navy, alerted to the disappearance of three French travelers. The sailors, apparently not having heard anything incriminating, were friendly when they picked them up and promised to swiftly return them to Bahia. 

Had they not been soaked and starving, an evening on a tropical beach would have been far preferable to what awaited them back in town. Bobinet had managed to turn a few palm fronds, a scented candle he'd found buried in his garments and the contents of his hip flask into a warming fire. Gardefeu had grimly added every last soaked pamphlet about the communication with spirits on the flames, poking them until the paper dried and each word had turned to ash.

"We will take you back quickly," the sailor with the best French promised while his comrades helped Métella over the railing. "The police are waiting to take a report, but maybe they can wait until tomorrow, for the lady's sake."

"We could…" Gardefeu cleared his throat again, having swallowed a fair share of salt water. "Maybe, another city? How far is Rio? I still have my gold watch." He fumbled at his pockets. "I think the cheque book survived too."

"No." Bobinet looked at Métella, gratefully collapsing beneath a blanket. Then at Gardefeu, pale and bedraggled, his usual joviality nowhere to be seen. "If we don't clear everything up with the French consul, you'll both be in trouble. Excommunicated, or possibly committed. I'll simply…" He squared his shoulders. "I'll talk to my aunt. This has to end – even if it means marriage."

It was a sign of their exhaustion that neither of his friends tried to dissuade him. So they sailed back, warmed by a pot of strong Brazilian coffee on calm waves (Bobinet wasn't fooled by the treacherous things; never again would he trust the ocean). He tried to enjoy the sensation of Métella's head in his lap, carefully detangling her salt-soaked hair while Gardefeu snored against his shoulder. They'd had adventures together. Surely the memories would last him a while? 

Neither Juliette nor his aunt were waiting at the pier. The policemen, friendlier specimens than Bobinet usually encountered in Paris, agreed to delay their statements and take the long way back to the hotel after a modest bribe. 

Of course, as Gardefeu complained, it might well be that the official interrogation would be kinder than the one awaiting them at the hand of relatives. But fortification in the form of a street vendor's maize crepes and a quick stop for fresh clothing lifted their spirits a great deal. When Gardefeu wrote the cheques, he joked about not having to validate them if he landed in prison and Métella reminded him, with a giggle, that the madhouse was a greater danger. They left the store, if not fashionably, at least decently dressed and Bobinet made certain to tip their accompanying officers once more for the courtesy. Not only could he face his doom in a clean shirt and dry trousers, but he had grown hearthily tired of walking around wrapped in heavily scented layers while playing a freshly-converted hypnotist. Or whatever one called the follower of one, he never did get the terminology right.

"I could sleep for a week." Gardefeu yawned hugely when they stopped before the hotel. "You don't think they have a spare shed for us at the station? We could just turn up tomorrow – or not at all."

"Darling, I think Bobinet is right about us having to face the music," Métella said gently. "Some matters do not go away with a good night's sleep. If you manage one… I had the most unsettling dreams on the way here." 

The way her hand searched for Bobinet's, he had no doubt who the focus of her worries had been. He squeezed back, trying to sound consoling and self-assured. "It will blow past, you'll see. A bit of shouting, a bit more groveling, and neither of you will have a problem again."

"And what about you?" Gardefeu's face was as grave as his tone, as he too laid his hand over Bobinet's until they both held on to Métella. They had stopped just before the entrance to the hotel, both his friends appearing unwilling to let him continue inside. "Don't give up, Bob," Gardefeu told him. "I swear I'll come up with something tomorrow."

"Give up? Haha, never fear. It's not over until the priest proclaims you man and wife." He managed a giggle, even as his stomach cramped at the thought, and pretended not to see the despairing look his friends exchanged.

"Please don't give in, Bob… You know Métella would miss you terribly." Mumbling the last, Gardefeu bent forward and, in full view of every passersby, pressed a kiss to his mouth before Bobinet even had the time to sputter in surprise. 

"My darling boys!" Though shorter than both of the men, Métella had a dancer's strength and the next moment she was crushing them both to her.

Bobinet didn't want to let go, despite standing bent like a beanstalk. But the bellboy came out, calling for them and through the open door he could hear his cousin's strident tones. Disentangling himself from his friends before anything unfortunate happened, Bobinet walked inside.

The things he wanted to say to them were too many for what little time they had left, and he didn't know how to begin anyway. How could he make clear how immensely he admired Métella, for instance? He had dreamed of her since he saw her outside a cabaret, turning away a drunkard with the strength of her disdainful look, but for all that Bobinet was happy to kneel at her feet, he lacked the words to explain that dancing, her pretty dresses – even her sweet body and lovely laugh! – stood in shadow of the brilliance of her character. Nor could he manage to reveal the times he had considered approaching Gardefeu, to admit his... not anything as easy to grasp as love (Bobinet knew it was theoretically more than a desire to become intimate with the beloved's swelling breasts, but he'd never suffered the pains of love poets spoke of). Rather, mixed with a good deal of exasperation, he felt for Gardefeu a depth of friendship that sometimes intimidated him. He, who managed friendship with half of Paris, had too long feared revealing the truth to his best friend and now his time had run out.

"Bobinet! In heaven's name, boy, where have you been?" His aunt marched towards him, the feather in her hat whipping about like an enraged general's plume, and his cousin following as the supporting troops ready to encircle and eliminate any resistance. "First that claptrap about spirits, then your outrageous behaviour during dinner and now, disappearing on us without a word! I am in a good mind to have you put away, for your own safety."

"Hello, auntie." Bobinet cringed as his aunt drew breath for a second round.

"Do not think I will merely ignore this! Do you not realize that your behaviour reflects badly on your family, your future wife? Furthermore…"

In front of her loud fury, the scattered sensations Bobinet had failed to give voice to in a tender farewell compressed until the pressure in his chest felt high enough to destroy him. He dared glance away from his relatives, hoping to spot Métella and Gardefeu. But even a glimpse of them shook him, as if he were a carafe and the truth a too harshly placed stopper; the world felt fragile as crystal, quivering around him, and Bobinet thought he heard the sound of rending glass. 

Yet no words left him. Neither farewells or requests for help to the two marvelous people that had risked life, limb and reputation to keep him at their side.

Juliette stomped forward, her usually cheerful disposition marred by a displeasure that had grown permanent during the last leg of their trip as Bobinet pretended to become enthralled by the Portuguese hypnotists. Her angry words joined those of his aunt, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was a worm and a coward, and that his deceitful friends were both entirely out of their half-witted minds.

Strangely enough, it was the sight of her so scornful – good old Juliette, who had always been up for a lark when they were young – that untied his tongue. The farewells he could not force his mouth to shape transformed. It wasn't that he experienced any brilliant leaps of logic, but the dammed-up torrent of emotion broke free of his fears, Bobinet finally found what he needed to say.

"Cousin… Please..." he walked up to her, his steps halting. Had he been of a more violent temper, perhaps he would have responded with anger of his own; had he been a master orator, he would have held the speech of his life. But Bobinet was merely himself, and in this moment, wit and eloquence abandoned him in equal measures.

Falling to his knees, he clutched her skirts, bending his head against her in supplication. "Juliette, _please_ don't make me marry you! I beg you, please release me!" His voice broke and he grew unable to hold back his tears. "Please, I'll owe you anything, just let me go free."

"What in the world are you up to now?" Juliette pushed at him with her fan, making a noise of disgust when Bobinet's sobs grew stronger, exhaustion and stress demanding a release. "Why are you making such a bother about it all? It's just a marriage!" 

"Because it matters to me," Bobinet cried, looking up at her, trying to make her see the truth. "I'm in love!" 

No. The wrong word; Bobinet bent his head in in self-recrimination, knowing how Juliette would roll her eyes and berate his love. How he wish he could take it back – he'd known what she thought of his type of love: infatuation, lust and passing fancies, but the word had sprung from him before his mind caught up. "Not _love_ , like I've been in love before," he continued in a choked whisper, "but something more. Please. I can explain." 

"Get a grip of yourself." His aunt glared down at him with a most forbidding tone to her voice. "Is it because of that courtesan? She's engaged to marry another man, you fool."

"Exactly," Juliette said. "You can't really ask me to give you up for a married woman, Bob, just imagine how that would look!" So sensible, misunderstanding everything that mattered. "If you need girls, there will be any number of dancers and whatnot down in those music halls you are so attracted by." Then she sighed in annoyance. "Oh, would you just stop weeping all over my skirts? I'll have stains. Here." She pulled out a handkerchief and waved it before him.

Bobinet clenched his eyes shut, refusing the offer. "It's not simply Métella, though I love her with all my heart, and wish that I could take her to wife. But I'd…" his voice broke, but clung to the silky skirts – scented with all the wrong perfume, reminding him with every breath of all that was wrong – and forced himself to continue. "I'd take Gardefeu to husband as well, if I could. I cherish them both in ways that I cannot explain to you, and I beg you, implore you that you let me live with... With the people I care more about than anything else in the world. Don't you see?" He looked up at her, crying out the truth as if he could force it into her ears. "I don't just want to sleep with Métella! It's not about dancing and drinking, not like before! I know I could do that, sneak out to do merry as much as I want. But I want to live with them, as... as would any man with his family. Please, Juliette, please release me." And he pressed his head against her skirts again, overwhelmed by what he had just admitted.

"What utter rubbish," his aunt said. "Hush, now, Juliette, and let me speak. These swindlers have been after Bobinet's money for weeks now. I didn't want to worry you, but I'm certain we'd uncover secret debts if we looked into –"

"She can take my damn money if she wants to," Bobinet cried out. "I do not want to get married to Juliette! How hard can that be to understand?"

"I don't know about anyone else," Juliette said with a haughty sniff, "but I am hardly in the position that I need a man for his money. How utterly vulgar!" 

"We are vulgar." When Métella finally spoke, she sounded so collected, so firmly in control that Bobinet cringed at his own outburst. But her voice rose as she continued: "We are vulgar, and emotional and we have stains on our honor – oh yes, I will not deny that!" She stomped over to them, the ill-fitting shoes they had found clattering on the marbled floor of the hotel. "Do you have any idea, my gracious mademoiselle de Folle-Verdure, how many men I have known? Do you have any idea, how many rich bankers and handsome soldiers – yes, a general, and a prince as well! – I have denied? You talk about money," Métella sneered, "as if a woman like me could not open her legs and kiss herself to the finest gold that love can buy. But you know what?" She put her hands on Bobinet's shoulders, holding on as if she never intended to let go. "I didn't choose my men for their money. I didn't choose them for their titles, either, or for any damn respectability. I am Parisian born and bred, and I need respectability like I need mademoiselle's permission to take my lovers to where they belong – home with me!" 

With that, Métella yanked him backwards. Bobinet found himself falling against her, his flailing right arm smacking into what felt like Gardefeu's leg. 

A sharp sound: his aunt's umbrella striking the stone floor rhythmically. "Brava." She nodded at them, then tipped her hat like a gentleman on the town. "Such a spirited defense, I am almost touched. However…" Her cane turned up, pointing at them like the barrel of a gun. Bobinet pressed himself backwards, and he felt Gardefeu lean closer, Métella alone holding fast against the old woman's silent accusation. "I have not heard a word from our Monsieur de Gardefeu himself. Share, please. I am certain," she drawled, every word dripping with derision, "that we are all curious to hear your views of my nephew's unusual proposition."

Swallowing, Bobinet glanced around. The hotel staff – concierge, bell boys, a guard and two maids – did not even pretend to be busy, although the two well-dressed Brazilians standing near the counter at least affected to be in conversation with each other. He had not meant to put Gardefeu on the spot like this, and he tried to catch his eye to make him understand as much.

"What should I say?" Gardefeu's light chuckle rang false in Bobinet's ears, but before his heart could completely race itself apart, another hand joined Métella's on his shoulder, a comforting weight. "I do love Métella – I'd duel for her, if that was what it would take. I can't duel for Bob. Can't take him as a husband, whether I intend to share him or not. Can't ever claim to love him as anything but a brother without causing a minor scandal."

Then Gardefeu let go and stepped up to Juliette, clasping her hand in his own, his voice growing increasingly sarcastic. "But, mademoiselle, trust me on this: I have been arrested for public indecency, seduced more married women than I can recall and what I have done beneath the altar of a church, you'd faint from hearing!" Refusing to let go of her hand, despite Juliette's attempts to pull away, Gardefeu instead forced a kiss on it, smirking insolently at her. "So what should I say? What in the world can convince such women, with their hearts like stone? I can't trick you to let go, I have no halfway honorable means left to convince you with. But the fact of the matter remains this: Bobinet is ours and if you believe that I have any reputation left to worry about…" He laughed, merrily this time, and then swirled around on his heel, raising his arms as if inviting both Métella and Bobinet to dance. "Come, my dearest friends. We have almost drowned, but we live, so let's toast our short lives and get good and drunk together."

"Not yet," Bobinet replied, carefully making it to his feet. "Juliette." He wet his lips, begging with his eyes and posture, with every part of his being. "Please, cousin?"

"Ugh. Oh, if you must!" Juliette crossed her arms, rolled her eyes and – as Bobinet's body filled with butterflies – shrugged as if the whole matter was beneath her. "Fine. Fine, whatever my dear cousin desires. The engagement is off. I certainly have no intention of marrying into worse scandal than Nicole Rouch, especially not for a giraffe-legged neurotic like you."

"Juliette!"

"Oh, shut it, auntie. I'm the one who would have to live with this idiot moping around for both his demimondaine _and_ the layabout gambler. And there is only so much of cousin Bobinet's moping that any sane person would volunteer for in their life! I don't know about you, but I had my fill before either of us turned ten." She glared at him as if Bobinet was a particular vile stain on her skirt-hem. "Well? What are you waiting for? Shoo, take off, go away! And don't you dare book the same ship home as I do, or I shall personally heave you all overboard!"

"I won't," Bobinet said, words stumbling over each other in joy, "oh, thank you Juliette, thank you!"

Métella was pulling him towards the elevator, Gardefeu following while his laughter rang through the hotel. They walked, then ran, they were free, and Bobinet was weeping again as they collapsed into a heap of trembling limbs and breathless, unbelieving laughter against the elevator wall. 

"Hush, my darling, you're safe now." Métella spoke gently, and combed through his hair with soothing fingers.

"Hey, Bob?" Gardefeu was in his face, grinning widely even as he tipped up Bobinet's face as delicately as if he was handling a lady. "You'd really marry me? Snoring and drinking and all?"

"I really would," Bobinet replied. Then pressed his lips together, trying to force the tremble in his voice down beneath the lump in his throat. 

"Hey there. Hey…" Soft lips against his own, the careful teasing of a tongue-tip, and then Gardefeu was kissing him – not the close mouthed kisses they had exchanged before, not even the biting, teasing ones Gardefeu was fond of trailing down his neck, but a kiss as if he worshipped him, as if he had offered his soul on a platter and begged for a response, lest he wither away.

"Welcome home, my darling." Métella's voice rang husky and full of promise in his ear, and then she turned his head to the side and proceeded to give him a kiss of her own, which had his knees buckling and his head swimming.

"Welcome home," Gardefeu echoed. "Back where you belong."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this little story amused. Comments always welcome!


End file.
